𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 {𝐬𝐱𝐬}

chapter two

———

🩺 AUDREY "DREY" JACKSON 🩺

THE ALARM DOESN'T get a chance to sound. Audrey Jackson's eyes snap open at 4:43 a.m., like always. No hesitation. No lingering in bed. She swings her long legs over the side, feet meeting the cold hardwood of her penthouse floor. The city outside is still dark, wrapped in its quiet.

She moves through her morning routine like muscle memory.

Tea first—ginger and turmeric, steeped precisely four minutes. She doesn't rush. Doesn't multitask. She stands still in her kitchen, lit only by the under-cabinet glow strip, eyes tracking the steam curling upward from her mug.

The glassy silence of the penthouse is something she used to crave—a stark contrast to the noise of her childhood home. But lately, the quiet feels heavier.

She takes her vitamins, one at a time, and lines up the pill bottles afterward in a perfect row. Her reflection stares back at her from the stainless-steel fridge: calm, collected, unsmiling. She doesn't bother forcing a smile.

She brushes her teeth and showers in water hot enough to turn her skin red. By the time she's stepping out and drying off her tattoos—arms covered in blackwork floral sleeves, a lioness on her back—the sky outside has begun to lighten.

Audrey dresses in her usual uniform: something casual, soft-soled black sneakers, a silver watch, and a white medical jacket with her name and credentials embroidered over the left breast.

Audrey Jackson, MSN, NP-C.

She pins her heavy locs into a low bun—something easy and simple. Then applies a layer of lip balm, knowing it could be a bit windy out.

She looks like she's got it all together. She always does.

But she hasn't slept more than three hours in weeks. She already knows today will drag.

Walking back into her kitchen, she grabs the lunch bag she packed the night before, along with her work bag, before exiting her home—only making her way down to the underground garage after the alarm is set.

Stepping off the elevator, she turns immediately, eyes landing on her two cars. As usual, she gets into her all-black Honda HR-V. The blacked-out Durango? Reserved for when she's with her siblings or just a night out.

⸻

By 6:30 a.m., Audrey steps into the clinic through the staff entrance. It's a mid-size, underfunded community health center on the South Side, mostly serving low-income and uninsured patients. The building is clean but old—chipped linoleum, humming fluorescents, cheap plastic chairs in the waiting room.

But Audrey makes it work. Because she has to. Because she always does.

Her coworkers greet her with tired smiles. She offers soft nods and polite hellos as she slips behind the front desk and into the back.

Her first patient is a walk-in.

Room 2.

A young Black man, no older than seventeen, sits on the edge of the exam table. He has a busted lip, a bandaged forearm, and is holding his side like it hurts to breathe.

Audrey knocks once before entering.

"Morning," she says gently. "I'm Audrey Jackson, Nurse Practitioner here. What's going on with you today?"

He doesn't speak right away. His eyes are wary. He looks like someone who's been trained not to trust too easily.

"Busted up," he mutters. "Fell. That's it."

Audrey closes the door behind her and approaches slowly. She notices his swollen knuckles, bruises in different stages of healing. Defensive wounds. Her eyes scan without judgment.

"You mind if I take a look at that side you're holding?"

He shrugs. "Do what you gotta do."

When she presses gently, he flinches hard.

"That pain sharp? Like a stabbing or just sore?"

"Sharp."

"Gotcha." Her voice stays calm, even. She listens to his breathing with her stethoscope. One lung doesn't sound quite right.

"I'm gonna order an X-ray," she tells him. "Make sure you don't have a rib fracture or a collapsed lung. We'll get you wrapped up and medicated in the meantime."

He nods, eyes low. She watches his hands again.

"You safe at home?" she asks carefully.

He looks up. Just for a second.

"I'm grown. Don't worry about all that."

She nods slowly. "Okay. If you change your mind, we've got resources."

After she finishes, she leaves the room, typing notes into his chart. She flags the social worker discreetly. No judgment. Just protocol. She's learned not to push—just offer a hand and keep the door open.

⸻

Hours pass in a blur.

Routine physicals. Diabetics in crisis. A tearful teen who thinks she might be pregnant. An elderly woman with hypertension who calls Audrey angel baby and brings her homemade sweet potato pie slices wrapped in foil.

Every patient gets her full attention, full compassion. Audrey smiles when needed, reassures when necessary, and always speaks clearly and softly. But inside—she's running on fumes. Ready to go home and sleep, though she knows she'll be doing anything but that.

⸻

Noon Break – Audrey's Office

The moment her door shuts, Audrey exhales. She leans back in her chair, tea in hand, gaze fixed on the framed skyline outside her window.

She checks her phone: sixteen unread messages.

Maya:
Ma's asking about rent. I told her to ask you directly.

A number she doesn't recognize but makes her roll her eyes and block them:
Heard you work long hours. You should let me take you out sometime.

Leila:
Just a question mark and a heart emoji.

Audrey locks the phone and flips it face-down.

A knock comes at the door. It's Nicole again, with that same bright smile, that same youthful bounce.

"Hey, Audrey... there's this invite-only event Friday. My best friend throws these underground fight nights, but it's real laid-back. You should come."

Audrey raises an eyebrow. "You tryna tell me I look stressed?"

Nicole laughs. "No, I mean—okay, maybe a little. But it's fun. Loud music, drinks, beautiful people. Might help you shake the week off."

Audrey sips her tea. "I'm not really a fight-night kind of woman."

Nicole leans on the doorframe, arms crossed. "Maybe you're not... yet."

Audrey doesn't respond right away. She's thinking about how long it's been since she's been anywhere just for herself. No responsibility. No caretaking. No worrying.

"Maybe," she says finally.

Nicole beams. "That's not a no. I'm about to send the details. Hope to see you there."

When Nicole leaves, Audrey closes her eyes for a second longer than usual. Her smile fades the moment no one is around to see it.

Her break ends too soon.

⸻

Her next patient brings a rare flicker of warmth to the day.

Room 4.
Mr. Briggs.

The room smells faintly of antiseptic and lavender from the oil diffuser someone plugged in last week. Seated on the table is an older man—early seventies, wiry frame, military posture. His eyes lift the second she walks in.

"Hey, Mr. Briggs," Audrey says, her tone warm but not condescending. "How you feeling today?"

"Same old. Knee's been barking again. Weather changes get to it." His voice is gruff but polite.

Audrey reviews his chart on the wall-mounted tablet. "Still not sleeping more than four hours?"

"Damn leg cramps wake me up," he mutters. "Feels like a charley horse from hell."

Audrey nods. "Let's take a look, yeah?"

She kneels without hesitation, gently lifting the hem of his loose sweatpants. His skin is worn and dry around the knee, scarred from an old surgery. She palpates carefully, checking for swelling, heat, resistance.

"You still doing the stretches I showed you?"

"Some mornings. Some mornings I don't even feel like getting out of bed."

Audrey straightens, meeting his eyes. "What about your appetite? Energy?"

He hesitates.

"No shame in being honest with me, Mr. Briggs."

He sighs. "Been feelin' low. Don't got much family around. Lost my wife four years ago, and most days it's just me and that damn TV."

Audrey nods, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. "You're not alone, Mr. Briggs. I can refer you to a group—men who've been through similar losses. Not therapy. Just conversation. Something to get you out of the house. Would you be open to that?"

He grumbles, then shrugs. "Ain't much of a talker."

"You don't have to be," she says. "Just show up. I'll have Kelsey print the info for you."

Something softens in his eyes.

She prescribes a non-narcotic for pain management and schedules a follow-up. As he stands, he reaches into his coat pocket.

"Brought you somethin'," he says, pulling out a little bag of pecans. "From my cousin's tree down South."

Audrey smiles genuinely. "Thank you, Mr. Briggs. I appreciate that."

He nods once and leaves, shoulders a little less heavy.

After updating his chart, Audrey pushes through the rest of her day.

⸻

By 8:15 p.m., her shift finally ends. She quickly grabs her things from her office, locks up, and leaves the building.

The drive home is long and silent—exactly what she needs. She doesn't get in until after nine.

First thing she does is take off her shoes, standing barefoot on the cold hardwood floor. Still. Quiet. She turns on her jazz playlist, lets the sounds of Coltrane fill the space, then moves through the apartment turning on soft lights.

In the bathroom, her bun comes down, long locs falling past her waist. She stares into the mirror, catching sight of herself.

"You're fine," she murmurs to no one.

The shower is hot and slow. Her back leans against the tiles longer than necessary. Afterward, she throws on a large black tee and compression shorts, heating leftovers in the microwave while she responds to Maya's text with a quick: All good. I'll send the money to you. Make sure it gets paid, please.

She doesn't turn the TV on. Instead, she eats in silence at the kitchen counter, scrolling through her patient notes on her tablet. She could sleep. She needs to. But her mind won't shut down.

She thinks about Deja, one of her patients. About her mom. About that scar on her wrist. About her ex texting again. About nothing and everything.

She finally settles into bed close to midnight, the city lights glinting outside her window.

Her phone buzzes. Another message from Leila:
I miss you. I was stupid. Just talk to me.

Audrey locks her phone and turns it face-down again.

She exhales, long and slow, and closes her eyes.

But the tension never really leaves her shoulders.

———
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